Classified
by hashtagxheel
Summary: Six lethal men and six dangerous beauties. In their line of work, love is an unnecessary emotion. As operatives for nearly identical government agencies, they weren't meant to interact. But what happens when they all start falling for one another?
1. Welcome to Sector 6

John Cena could practically hear Shawn Michaels' voice in his ears, bitching at him for being late to today's briefing. Shawn was his friend and all, but he was not the type to let you forget if you slipped into the conference room a few minutes late.

John rounded the corner of the busy city street and stepped through the front doors of what appeared to be just another office building. Once inside, he carefully glanced over his shoulder. He took out an ID card and slid it into a slot near the titanium door's handle. When the ID was verified, John placed his right hand into a panel next to the door, which scanned his fingerprints. After a few seconds, his information popped up on a small screen next to the panel that took his prints.

_John Felix Anthony Cena_

_ Codename: The Champ_

John smiled and said to himself, "That sounds about right." He briskly walked into the door as it opened.

"Running late again?" asked a voice. John turned around to see that the voice belonged to the man he considered his best friend, Randy Orton, codenamed Viper.

"I can't possibly be any later than you," shot John.

Randy smiled, figuring if he would endure anyone's shit-talking, it should be John's. The two of them had been recruited to Sector 6 at the same time. Sector 6 was the most elite of the elite when it came to government agencies. Men who made it in were masters at any task thrust in front of them; they had aim like marksmen, the hand-to-hand combat skills of Marines, they were handy with blades, the tech skills of experienced hackers and were masters of disguise. What they did went beyond merely being spies or government operatives or even, according to some, assassins; they were like superheroes without the powers and ugly ass costumes.

With Shawn's back turned, John and Randy slipped into the conference room and took seats at the long table next to three other men. A blonde man with tattoos who wore sunglasses despite the darkness nudged Randy.

"Shawn's gonna kill you guys this time," he said.

Randy smiled. "Nah, he loves us too much. Besides, he never gives us our assignments until halfway through the briefing anyway."

"Right," the man, Adam Copeland, codenamed Edge, replied. A native of Toronto, Adam had spent his childhood fighting on the ice as a star hockey player. That being said, he had a quick temper and an even quicker left hook. However, Adam was pretty good at keeping himself in check on assignments. Edge's therapy was his role as Sector 6's resident demolitions expert. He was the McGyver of explosives, and the guys in Sector 6 joked that he could make a bomb out of a pen and paper and a trip wire out of yarn.

To the right of Randy sat John. A man with long dirty blonde hair and a gruff voice nudged him. "Late again, Champ?"

"What else is new?" John asked.

"Most of the shit HBK's shown us in the last few minutes," the man joked, "but like I said, you didn't know that, 'cause you're late." Hunter Helmsley, codenamed Triple H, laughed. One of the veterans of Sector 6, he was second-in-command. A funny guy with some asshole tendencies, Hunter hailed from Greenwich, Connecticut. He had a reputation as having the demeanor of a bounty hunter. Anybody who had the bad luck of becoming Hunter's next assignment was certain to be caught...or killed. This amazing track record helped him to rise in the ranks fairly quickly and he was now his best friend's right hand man.

John shrugged. "As long as I get my assignment, I'm straight."

"Fingers crossed that part comes up soon," said a Southern-accented voice from behind them. John turned to see that the voice belonged to Ted DiBiase, the latest addition to Sector 6. His privileged upbringing had earned him the codename Bank, and the guy had plenty of it. Dripping in Versace or not, through, the guys quickly learned to give Ted his props. An expert locksmith, he was probably capable of breaking into the Pentagon undetected.

"I'm with you on that," replied John.

Shawn ended the power point and turned the lights on. "Look who decided to join us," he said, gesturing to John and Randy.

"Fashionably late, as always," said Randy.

Rolling his eyes, the leader of Sector 6, Shawn Michaels, codenamed HBK, slid five manila folders to his colleagues and kept one for himself. "Our latest assignment, gentlemen," Shawn announced.

"Who's the unlucky bastard this time?" asked Hunter.

"Bastards is more like it," Shawn replied, flipping open his folder. The other five followed suit. Shawn pulled two pictures out of his folder. "These are David Hart Smith and Tyson Kidd, two con men from Calgary. For years, they've been setting up small businesses both here in the States and in Canada and swindling people out of their money. Unfortunately, the fuckers are filthy rich and paid lawyers that made sure none of the charges would stick."

"Who contracted us?" Randy asked.

Shawn flipped through some more papers. "Looks like it was Smith's uncle, Bret Hart. He's a businessman from Calgary. I guess he was among the unlucky people Smith and Kidd conned. He attached a red notice." Shawn gritted his teeth.

John rubbed his hands together. "Aww, yeah."

"Red notice" in Sector 6 meant that the target was to be killed upon the mission's completion.

"Now that's what you call a dysfunctional family," said Hunter.

Shawn laughed. "Anyway, we infiltrate tonight, during a fundraiser they'll be hosting for one of their fake businesses tonight in Vancouver. Your fake identification has already been supplied and your covers are those of hired muscle working security for the event. What we've been enlisted to do, exactly, is hack into their computer system and retrieve the intel necessary for Hart to get his money back. And, of course, take Smith and Kidd out. Any questions?"

The other five all shook their heads.

"Good," replied Shawn, "then I'll see you guys at the landing strip in one hour; not an hour and ten minutes, not an hour and a half, _one hour_." He cast searing, but friendly, looks at John and Randy.

"Aye aye, Captain," joked John.

_**A/N:**_ _**I began this story on an impulse, so...I hope it's good so far! I've been so bogged down with school and family vacations that I haven't had time to update "Love's Worth Wrestling For", "Family Ties", and "Dead and Buried" recently. But don't worry, they're coming this week, I promise! Anyway, R&R!:D**_


	2. Champagne

It was a chilly night in Vancouver and the guys' Smith and Kidd-issued security suits did little to keep them from freezing. Although they were a couple of smooth-talking, money-stealing assholes, the guys had to admit that Smith and Kidd knew how to throw a party, held at a massive estate overlooking the bright nighttime lights of downtown Vancouver.

Bank tagged along with Champ and Viper for most of the evening. The three of them were in the foyer, waiting for the go-ahead from HBK to take out Smith and Kidd.

A bleach blonde-haired Champ took a champagne flute from a passing server's tray. "I gotta say, this is definitely a party I'd wanna be a part of, if I wasn't here to kill these douche bags."

A red-haired Viper nodded and downed some champagne of his own. "It's a shame we'll have to shut the party down early. This is a pretty bad-ass house." He used his champagne flute to gesture to the grandeur of the event around them.

"_Bad-ass_?" snorted a dark-haired Bank, placing his now-empty champagne flute on an end table, "My summer home smashes on this place."

The three of them shared a laugh just as Viper felt a hand on his shoulder. When they turned, a man who had a good four or five inches on the six foot four Viper was staring down at him, while the other man was staring Champ right in the...neck.

"Is this what we pay you assholes for, huh? Standing around and cracking jokes?" demanded the shorter man in a noticeable Canadian accent.

"We've got an event we're trying to run," snapped the taller man, "so we'd appreciate it if you shitheads did your part."

Viper could feel his fists clenching just as a brown-haired Edge, a jet black-haired HBK and Triple H, with his long hair tucked under a baseball cap, approached.

"My apologies, Mr. Kidd. I'll make sure my guys are on duty the rest of the night," HBK said, in a British accent.

"That's what I thought," the shorter man scoffed before the pair disappeared.

Edge shook his head. "As if we needed another reason to kill them."

David Hart Smith was having the best time in the banquet hall, chatting, laughing, eating, and drinking with his party guests. The fact that these people had no idea their money was about to be snatched from under their noses made his evening just that much more fun. It was a little weird without Kidd here—he'd hurried off to the office in a hurry a little while ago—but he didn't care _that_ much.

"Who wants more champagne?" Smith boomed with outstretched arms. The party goers cheered and raised their glasses in response. A man in a suit and, strangely, a baseball cap, personally delivered Smith's glass. Smith snatched the glass from the tray and took a swig of champagne. He was all smiles for a moment, and then he felt woozy. Then his face felt hot and suddenly he was having trouble breathing. Smith fell over onto the table in front of him, struggling for air and eliciting panic from the crowd.

Triple H walked out of the banquet hall smiling, just as Smith took his last breath.

Kidd, completely unaware that his business partner had just kicked the bucket, was frantically searching through drawers in his office. He could have sworn he'd left the money he owed his uncle Bret—this was ten thousand American dollars for trafficking guns into the States, not the money he'd stolen—in one of the desk drawers, and now it was nowhere to be found.

Kidd was in the process of tearing his office apart when he though he heard his office door open slightly. Without even turning around, he grabbed a pistol from the drawer closest to him and whirled around. He was stopped dead in his tracks by three bullets to the the chest from a silenced handgun. Kidd's lifeless body fell to the floor.

Viper stood over him and pulled off his red wig. He picked up the spent casings and laughed slightly. Pretty good for one night's work.

The six of them made their way out of the mansion, amidst the hysteria that was now setting in.

"Nice work, boys," said HBK, peeling back his black wig.

"Glad to see you've dropped the William Regal voice," sniffed Triple H, shaking his hair from underneath the baseball cap.

"Aren't we all?" asked Bank, taking off his dark brown wig.

"Oh trust me, I speak for all of us when I say, we are," Edge seconded, snatching off his russet-colored wig.

HBK laughed. "Mission accomplished. I've already informed Bret Hart that the targets have been taken out. Miz and Charger have already retrieved the account information from Kidd and Smith's various files. Job well done."

Job well done, indeed.

_**A/N: So, how was it? Poisoning and shooting are the first two deaths that came to mind, sorry. But who knows, people may wind up stabbed or blown up in later chapters. By the way, thanks for the author and story alerts for the first chapter, I appreciate them! R&R!(: **_


	3. Injection

When Alberto Del Rio came to, he didn't have the slightest clue as to where he was. A warehouse, maybe? He appraised the wide open space and rows of windows. As badly as he wanted to figure it out, he couldn't focus; he was tied to a chair, it was crazy dark, and his head was throbbing. Not long after that, her heard footsteps echoing behind him, but they weren't heavy footsteps; they were softer, daintier, and sounding as if they belonged to...

_Women._

Three stunning, beautiful, lovely, _drop-dead gorgeous_ women.

Del Rio laughed as the women surrounded him. "_No me digas!" _he said, "I was beaten unconscious and captured by _tres mujeres_? No way!"

The woman in the middle clenched her fist. Without warning, she delivered a solid blow to Del Rio's jaw.

Del Rio's head snapped to the right. "_Pinche cabrona_!" he said, spitting out blood.

A short woman with jet black hair rolled her eyes. "Cowgirl, what did we tell you about that?"

Cowgirl gritted her teeth. "Sorry, Hollywood."

The third woman stood behind Del Rio and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Now that we have your undivided attention," she said, in what he was sure was a French accent, "tell us everything you know about MS-13 trafficking drugs into California."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Del Rio sputtered.

Hollywood knelt down in front of him. "Oh, but I think you do," she said, "see, I'm from L.A. As a matter of fact, my dad was in the Sinaloa Cartel. I know plenty about MS and their ties to _La Eme_, which, if I'm not mistaken, you're a pretty high-ranking member of."

Del Rio laughed. "_La Eme_?" he asked, "What would I be doing dealing with a bunch of common criminals? Do you know who I am?"

"Alberto Del Rio Rodriguez," began Vixen, "born May 25, 1977 in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. You graduated from La Universidad Autonoma de San Luis Potosi in 1997 with a degree in architecture. You competed on the Mexican National wrestling team at the 2000 Olympic games. I think it's safe to say we know who you are, don't you think?"

Del Rio was speechless. "How did you know all of that?"

Vixen waved a manila folder in front of Del Rio's face. "It's all in your file."

"Now that we've got all that established," said Cowgirl, "let's get back to you and this drug trafficking business..."

"I already told you..." Del Rio began, but Hollywood cut him off.

"We know what you said," Hollywood said, "but the problem with it is that it's all bullshit. You know what's shocking, Alberto—can I call you by your first name?-is that you were doing pretty good up until not that long ago. You do what all the good drug dealers do: you stayed off of the Feds' radar, you used a middle man. But not to long ago, you made a huge mistake."

"Remember that last shipment of heroin you made sure got into L.A.?" asked Cowgirl, "Well, it was tainted. With what, we still don't know. MS-13's mules were pushing the drugs just down the street from Dominguez High and a poor seventeen-year-old boy got his hands on it and wound up dead."

"And he wasn't just any teenager," continued Vixen, "he was the son of a good friend of Hollywood's. He was the son of an LAPD Lieutenant, Alberto."

At this point, Del Rio was just wondering if he should give it up. These girls had his number. How had they known? Despite this, he made the internal decision to keep going on with the charade. "You can't honestly blame me for that boy overdosing," said Del Rio, "it's a tragedy, yes, but I assure you ladies I don't know anything about drugs, _La Eme, _MS-13, or Los Angeles."

Hollywood smirked. "I guess that's his story and he's sticking to it," she said, standing up. She nodded to Cowgirl who opened a briefcase. Cowgirl put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled a syringe from the briefcase.

Del Rio's heart dropped. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh, this?" Cowgirl said nonchalantly, pointing to the syringe, "This here is potassium chloride; you know, the stuff they use for lethal injection."

Del Rio started hyperventilating; he was ready to crack. If he didn't, he was more sure than ever that these girls were going to kill him. "Alright, alright!" he said, "The shipment of heroin got into L.A about a week ago. _La Eme_ used _Sure__ños_ to get it across the border to MS-13 and MS gave half of the shipment to the _Norteños_, and they took it up to Fresno and the Bay Area."

"What was in the heroin that's got high school kids dropping like flies?" Hollywood demanded.

"Cocaine," Del Rio admitted, "it was my idea. But I didn't think all of that would happen!"

"You mean you didn't know that cocaine speeds you heart rate up and heroin slows it down?" asked Vixen, "Meaning that combining the two is certain death?"

Cowgirl smiled. "Well, I think we've got all the information we need." Without saying another word, Vixen grabbed Del Rio's head and tipped it back. He knew what was coming.

"No, please!" Del Rio pleaded, "Please, don't! I already told you everything I know! I admitted everything!"

"Yeah, you did," said Hollywood, "but it doesn't bring that boy—or anyone else your tainted drugs have killed—back." She gave Cowgirl the go-ahead.

Cowgirl stuck the syringe into Del Rio's neck. She tossed the syringe and gloves into the briefcase and checked her watch. "I give him a minute and a half."

Vixen smiled. "Are we done here?"

Hollywood pulled the tape recorder out of her back pocket. "Yep. We've got everything we need."

The three ladies linked arms like little kids and sashayed out of the warehouse just as Del Rio took his last breath.

Mission accomplished.

**A/N: So what do you think of the girls?** **Based on the codenames, who do you think Hollywood, Cowgirl, and Vixen are? You'll met them and the other ladies in the next chapter(: Review please !:D (P.S. For those of you that don't know, **_**La Eme**_** is the Mexican Mafia; MS-13, the Norte****ñ****os and the Sure****ñ****os are Mexican gangs in California; and MS-13 is a Salvadoran gang in L.A.) **


	4. The Concrete Roses

Amy Dumas stepped out of an elevator on the bottom floor of what appeared to be just another plain old big city office building at exactly eight fifty nine. Right on time.

Amy entered the conference room in Sector 7's headquarters to applause. The lovely redhead simply smiled and bowed. "Thank you, thank you very much," she said in her best Elvis voice.

Sector 7 was the government's female counterpart to Sector 6. The women who were hand-picked weren't just beautiful; they were _gorgeous._ It wasn't enough to be smart; you had to be a _genius_. Not to mention, all the ladies were well-studied in various areas of hand-to-hand combat, espionage, and the ability to change any identifying aspect of their personality at the drop of a dime.

The ladies of Sector 7 were nicknamed the Concrete Roses—the prefect combination of flawless looks and the unbelievable talent for ass-kicking.

There was Amy Dumas, a veteran codenamed Lita, who was by far the best of the girls when it came to self-defense. A native of Atlanta and a fifth degree black belt in jiujitsu, she could kick your ass a hundred different ways and she was always thinking of more.

Mickie James, codenamed Cowgirl, spent her childhood riding horses in the hills surrounding Richmond, Virginia. A former Army Ranger, she was a master survivalist as well as a trained sharpshooter. There are those who have mistaken her Southern hospitality for weakness; however, there are no first-hand accounts of that, because Mickie shot all those people.

Melina Perez, codenamed Hollywood, was by far the most hot-tempered. Hailing from L.A., Melina was a former gymnast whose unreal flexibility allowed her to slip in and out of places others couldn't. She was also a master of torture and interrogation tactics, which she'd learned from her father, a former head in the Sinaloa Cartel.

Stephanie McMahon was probably the most unlikely member of the Concrete Roses. Yes, she was beautiful, but one would think that someone who came from such a wealthy background wouldn't even consider doing what she did for a living. Codenamed Princess because of her privileged childhood, she could, surprisingly handle knives and blades better than anyone who had ever passed through the Roses' doors. It's been said that no one else has ever looked so good slitting someone else's throat.

Maryse Ouellet, codenamed Vixen, was a feisty Montreal-bred new addition to the team who craved the finer things in life. A master manipulator, she took espionage to a whole new level. She wouldn't just trick you into thinking she was someone she wasn't while she was undercover. No, that was never enough. She was more likely to get you all flustered, kill you before you could blink, and snatch your Rolex. Why? That was just the way she rolled.

Trish Stratus, codenamed Diva, was the leader of Sector 7. A native of Toronto, the boss lady's killer looks gave way to her killer talent for handling explosives; she could rig and blow up just about anything. An extremely capable leader, the girls couldn't remember a time she had steered them in the wrong direction.

"Good morning, ladies," said Trish, who stood at the head of the long table. "First things first, I think it's only fair we congratulate Melina, Mickie, and Maryse on successfully wrapping up the Del Rio assignment yesterday. Job well done, girls."

"We try," joked Melina.

Mickie playfully punched Melina. "We did a good job thanks to my old friend sodium chloride." She winked.

Trish rolled her eyes. "Anyway, there's no time for you guys to catch you breath," she said, "We got our latest assignment just this morning." Trish handed the girls' manila folders to Amy, who gave them out. Trish stepped to the left of the projector screen and hit the lights. Three pictures appeared side-by-side on the screen. They were of three couples, but while the women were different, the man wasn't. He was tall and expensively dressed with dark hair in every picture, and every woman was a beauty.

"This is Wade Barrett," said Trish, "he's a British national wanted by Interpol in connection with the murders of three of his ex wives."

"Holy shit, _three_?" Mickie asked, her eyes wide.

Trish nodded. "Unfortunately." She hit the button on the remote, clicking to the next picture. It was Barrett standing beside an Asian woman. They both looked happy.

"This is Barrett's first wife, Gail Kim," said Trish, "her family is filthy rich; both of her parents are millionaire shareholders in a big Korean electronics company. She and Barrett were married about eighteen months ago after dating for three weeks, and she was found strangled to death in their home in Toronto a month later."

Amy gritted her teeth. "Goddamn, this guy doesn't waste any time does he?"

"Oh, it gets worse," Trish said. She clicked to next photo. It was of Barrett and a tall, athletic looking blonde woman. "This is Michelle McCool, Barrett's second wife. He married her three months after Gail's murder. It say's here she's from Florida and her parents are both on the board of trustees at Florida State University, her alma mater. They made their fortune in real estate development. Two weeks after the wedding, Tampa police found her strangled to death in the yoga studio where she attended classes."

Stephanie rolled her eyes. "How could this guy possibly have been free? There are _too_ many similarities between the first and second wives' murders."

Trish held up a finger. "One more." She clicked to the third picture, of Barrett and a pretty Black woman. "This is unlucky wife number three, Alicia Fox. Like Michelle, she's from Florida. She and Barrett got married two months after Michelle's body turned up. Her parents are in the music business; her dad made money working with a bunch of big Motown artists back in the day and her mom sang backup for a lot of the same artists. Three weeks after she and Barrett were married, Alicia was found strangled in her dad's private recording studio."

"So, what does Interpol want us to do? Bring him in?" asked Maryse.

Trish nodded. "That, and stop his fourth wife from becoming his next victim."

"He's getting married _again_?" Melina asked.

Trish clicked to yet another picture of Barrett and a woman. "This is Barrett's fiancee, Kelly Blank. Another Floridian. She and Barrett are getting married tomorrow..."

Amy held up her hand. "Tomorrow? What are we doing, stopping the wedding?"

"Not quite," Trish replied, "stopping Barrett is more like it."

Mickie's eyes narrowed. "How?"

"Barrett is having his bachelor party at the Hard Rock in Vegas tonight," said Trish, "we're going undercover and infiltrating then."

Stephanie groaned. "Don't tell me we're going undercover as strippers!"

Trish winced. "Yeah..."

"Fuck!" said Stephanie, "If this asshole's got me pretending to be a stripper, _please_ tell me we get to waste him when it's all over."

Trish smiled. "Well, we _do_ have a red notice..."

"Score," said Amy.

"In short," Trish said, "we show up half-naked, we kill Barrett, and get the hell out. Understood?"

The ladies nodded.

"Alright then," said Trish, tossing her folder on the table, "I'll see you girls at the landing strip in an hour."

Amy smiled. "Vegas, here we come."

**A/N: So now you've met all of the girls. You'll go along with them on their mission in the next chapter. R&R !:D**


End file.
